'But fish get dirty too, don't they?'

by Deborah Parkhill Mullis

"I like pets - all kinds of pets" begins a favorite book of my 2-year-old son, Justin. But don't try to get Boris, the pet black moor goldfish, to believe it.

Named after the fictional Boris Badenov from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show for his protruding eyes, Boris lived a relatively serene existence in his fish bowl, on the bookshelf until my firstborn became mobile.

Last week, after folding laundry in the back of the house, I discovered Justin, having pushed a chair up to the kitchen counter, was pouring the better part of a bottle of dishwashing liquid into Boris' bowl.

Not sure yet what to do, I banished my son to his room with orders to "think about what you have done" and I turned my attention back to poor Boris.

The pet fish lay limp, close to the surface of the water, bewildered by the thick pink liquid that had permeated his home and engulfed his very being.

I grabbed an alternate bowl and quickly filled it with water. Scooping Boris up in the fish net, I proceeded to rinse him under the faucet.

During this cleansing process, he managed an occasional gasp but was certainly incapable of his usual flip-flopping antics while in-between bodies of water. As there wasn't time to allow the new water to adjust to room temperature, Boris was forced to suffer yet another shock to his system.

Uncertain of how badly his original bowl had been contaminated, I placed it in the sink and left the tap running. Within moments, my kitchen looked like a scene from "I Love Lucy" with soap suds piling high above the fish bowl.

After that display, I didn't hold much hope that Boris would make it this time. All the more upsetting was the fact that I'd had Boris for more than three years. That was longer than the kid, and anyone who has ever had a pet goldfish for any length of time knows what an accomplishment that is.

Well, believe it or not, Boris is still with us. This was not the first peril perpetrated upon the fish by young Justin. In fact, for a time Boris actually resided in the very room of his tormentor - until Justin began to climb and in so doing managed to pull Boris and his bowl off the high dresser, giving himself a goose-egg-sized bump on the forehead as the bowl crashed into him before crashing to the floor.

Boris laid in soggy carpeting, among the shattered glass of his broken home for quite some time until I was able to calm Justin down. Despite a nasty scrape to his scales, Boris survived that incident, too. It was after this that I moved the fish to the kitchen for his own protection. 

Although, obviously tougher than the average fish, Boris now becomes understandably frantic at the site of my son. Because of this, Justin can no longer feed the fish. This was something Justin use to enjoy and so it became his own punishment.

Pet lovers will be relieved to know that I have reinstated the use of a baby-gate across the kitchen doorway to keep Justin from further terrorizing the fish. And parents will pleased to know, that once calm, I inquired of Justin as to just what he was thinking of when he poured soap into the fish bowl.

"Bath. Fish." was his reply. I resolved that wasn't such a terrible idea for a 2-year-old to have, but don't try to get Boris to believe that either.

(This essay was published by The Enquirer-Journal of Monroe, NC)